


Healing Hands

by accol



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accol/pseuds/accol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Doc rested his knuckles on Eric’s front door for a few seconds. This was the last chance to walk away. Kocher was probably fine. He was a goddamn Marine. He’d be fine.  Doc knocked anyway.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Oorah Porn Fest](http://generation-kill.livejournal.com/778865.html?thread=10525297#t10525297). Based on fictionalized portrayals in the HBO miniseries _Generation Kill_. No harm or infringement intended.
> 
> WARNINGS: Tiny amount of gore, hints of PTSD

After Dill and the mine, Doc watched Eric clean his hands off with his last babywipe. Then he clicked his pen and pulled out a notebook. Even at ten yards, Doc could see his hand shake.  
  
****  
  
Kocher was sitting on the top step, head strategically behind a support beam so he could look out the factory window like he was motherfucking sight-seeing.   
  
“You in Afghanistan?” Kocher asked, turning to look Doc over. His eyes were sad, tired. They all needed to get out of this shithole before they turned into their own special kind of bootfucked Captain America.   
  
Doc shook his head, and Eric just nodded. His thumb kept pressing the button on his pen, up and down, click click click. It echoed.  
  
****  
  
Doc rested his knuckles on Eric’s front door for a few seconds. This was the last chance to walk away. Kocher was probably fine. He was a goddamn Marine. He’d be fine.  
  
Doc knocked anyway.   
  
****  
  
Glass clanked together out at the fridge where Eric was grabbing them some beers. Doc sat on the couch, taking in the stack of notebooks, corners dogeared. Kocher hadn’t punched Doc in the face, so that was a good sign. The state of Kocher’s knuckles, bruised, flesh raw, when he handed Doc his beer was less good.  
  
“You ok,” Doc asked, tilting the neck of his bottle toward Kocher’s hand. He was just resting it there on the armrest like Doc was supposed to ignore it.  
  
Eric grunted, eyes coming to rest somewhere in the vicinity of Doc’s beer bottle. “You know how it is.”  
  
Doc stared until Kocher lifted his eyes and met his gaze. That same tired look was there.   
  
Doc reached over and pulled him closer by the wrist. Eric hissed a little and Doc could see it was fucked up, swollen and fresh.   
  
“Your captain or a wall or what?”  
  
“A tree that looked vaguely McGraw-like.”  
  
Doc shook his head, exhaling hard out of his nose. Schwetje had been Doc’s version of Captain America. They were lucky to have come back from the desert at all, considering. “Where’s your kit?”  
  
Kocher jerked his head to the right.  
  
“Fucking idiot,” Doc mumbled. “Come on. I’m gonna fix that so you can keep writing about your feelings or whatever the fuck.”

Under the harsh light of the bathroom’s bare lightbulb, it looked worse. Doc wasn’t gentle as he cleaned it up, because fuck Kocher for punching a tree instead of asking for goddamn help. Tweezers, gauze, a yank to his middle finger to make sure it was set, tape.   
  
Kocher stood over Doc as he worked, looming into Doc’s space, forcing him against the sink. Doc tried to ignore it, how Eric’s other hand was gripping the counter next to Doc’s hip, white knuckled. When Doc finally looked up, he had to dodge Eric’s forehead so they didn’t clock each other.  
  
“Stay,” Kocher whispered, his voice cracking. “I mean--”   
  
Fucker must have written all of his big boy words down in his diary, because now he just leaned in and kissed Doc. There were still drops of Eric’s blood in the sink. Doc still had the roll of gauze in his fist.  
  
Doc shoved him back against the open door. It thudded against the wall, the doorknob marring the drywall. “You fuckhead. Are you fucking kidding me?” He grabbed a handful of Eric’s shirt and forced him into the hallway, across into the bedroom. “Are you goddamn, fucking kidding me right now?”   
  
Kocher looked shocked. His fingers were digging into Doc’s forearm, but not to wrench his hand away, more to keep him close. The tape strained over his knuckles as they flexed.  
  
Doc sighed. What the fuck was he doing here? He wasn’t leaving. He was the one who’d knocked. It’d been his thumbs running unnecessarily over Kocher’s palm not five fucking mikes ago. He tightened his fingers in the fabric of Eric’s shirt, pushing his fist hard against the center of his chest. Doc’s other hand was suddenly on the back of Kocher’s neck, the short hairs at the nape of his neck scratching against the inside of his fingers.  
  
Then their mouths were crashing together. The metallic taste of blood pricked at Doc’s tongue as he shoved it past Eric’s lips. Kocher sucked in a breath, letting go of Doc’s arm and pulling at the button of his jeans instead. Desperation laced his movements, tossing Doc’s belt into the corner where its buckle clanked against the dresser.   
  
Doc pushed him down on the mattress, climbing on top of him, straddling his hips and feeling every inch of his dick hard under his ass. He reached down and pulled himself out.  
  
“Fucking stellar bedside manner, Doc,” Kocher quipped, the first smile Doc had seen on him in weeks coming to his lips.   
  
“Shut the fuck up, and get your shit out too.”  
  
Doc climbed down, shed his clothes, and then yanked Kocher’s pants off by the ankles. Eric’s injured hand was fisted loosely into the bedspread. His other hand was already jacking his dick.  
  
“You kinky fucker,” Doc said, grabbing for the bottle of hand lotion on the side table. “Gimme your palm.” He squirted a huge, messy dollop of makeshift lube into Eric’s good hand and another into his own, taking his spot again straddling Eric’s hips, chucking the lotion off the edge of the bed.  
  
Their hands tangled, knuckles bumping as they slicked up their own cocks, then each others’ with a hiss. Doc almost collapsed over Kocher when Kocher thumbed over the head of his dick.   
  
“Jesus,” Kocher breathed. He craned his head up, searching for another kiss. Doc gave him one, a sloppy, brutal press of mouths together as they jerked each other off.  
  
Doc sat back, putting a hand hard on the center of Kocher’s chest. He thrust his hips, driving his cock into Eric’s fist, trying to keep a rhythm on Eric’s dick too. Kocher pawed at Doc’s ass with his bandaged hand, pushing his pace faster.   
  
“Ah, fuck!” Kocher yelled, abs tightening as come looped onto his chest. Doc pushed into it, not letting up. He curled his hand around Kocher’s on his dick, tightening the grip when Kocher started to relax in his post-orgasm bliss-out.   
  
“Fuck. You. Stay. With. Me,” Doc grunted each punctuated word, gripping Eric’s chin and forcing him to meet Doc’s eyes. Goddamn, Kocher’s cheeks were so fucking pink. And that smile was still tickling the corners of his mouth.  
  
Doc moaned and came.  
  
“Next time call up that chick with the vibrating egg and leave me the fuck out of it,” Doc grumbled into Eric’s chest, but his words didn’t have any bite.


End file.
